Where the Shore Ended and the Sea Began
by Penguin
Summary: When visiting Draco in Finistère, Harry disappears. Draco is sent to prison for his murder on circumstantial evidence. But Harry's body is never found, and whenever Draco is near the sea, he senses Harry's presence.


**Author:** Penguin

**Warnings:** Angst

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:** Written for hd_fan_fair (or Travel Fair) on LJ. The story is DH compliant and partly epilogue compliant (although I've fiddled with the time lines a little). Thanks to my wonderful betas – Plumeria, Olivia Lupin, Benjj and Mijeli! And thanks to Vaysh11 for the inspiring prompt.

**WHERE THE SHORE ENDED AND THE SEA BEGAN**

In the dream Draco was gliding through glassy water, watching shoals of silvery fish turn and dart away as he approached. The brightness of the surface faded away as he descended into the green depths with smooth, effortless strokes. The water was silky and cool and there was no danger here, only hope.

He awoke to darkness and a hard, narrow bed. Shivering, he pulled the threadbare blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes, preferring the darkness inside his eyelids to that of the cell. Through the tiny, barred window he heard waves crash against the foot of the cliff. He could picture them clearly – harsh, wild, crested with white.

It wouldn't be so bad, he thought, if they found him guilty. Despite the damp, the darkness and the terrible cold it wouldn't be so bad, because here in the cells of Azkaban he'd be able to hear the sea.

xxx

"Mr Malfoy, correct me if I'm wrong – did you just tell me we'll be unable to find evidence against you?" The prosecutor's mock-surprised voice echoed flatly in the Wizengamot chambers.

"Yes."

"Because you destroyed it?"

"I didn't destroy it."

"Then why, pray, would we not be able to find it?"

"Because – there – isn't – any," said Draco through clenched teeth. "There is no evidence against me for the simple reason that _I didn't do it_ – I didn't kill Harry Potter! For Merlin's sake, not even the Dark Lord succeeded, and _he_ tried for sixteen years. So do you really think _I_ could have? I'm a mere…"

"Death Eater!" someone supplied loudly from the spectators' benches.

Draco closed his eyes and inhaled slowly, deeply, to cool his temper. That had been a mistake – a bad, bad mistake. He was the son of a tried and convicted Death Eater, and however much he might have changed, however redeemed he might be, it didn't do to go around mentioning the Dark Lord. Never. And absolutely, _absolutely_ not in a situation like this.

The audience was in an uproar; the prosecutor was triumphant.

"Ah!" he exclaimed as if there had been a spectacular revelation. "So you _meant_ to kill him, but didn't succeed? Then where is he now?"

His arm swept out towards the audience as if to say that the case was clear as day; they had their villain right here, so what were they waiting for?

"Silence!" cried Judge Wagstaff and slammed the gavel down. "Mr Malfoy, please answer the question."

Draco took another slow, deep breath. "No, I didn't try to kill Harry Potter." His voice was shaking. "I _didn't_ kill him. I don't even know that he's dead, and neither do you! All I know is that he… that he disappeared."

"And you were the last person to see him," said the prosecutor.

"As far as I know, yes."

"Mr Malfoy, _please_!" The prosecutor was losing his patience. "We're not imbeciles! You went swimming with Mr Potter. Only you returned from the beach. If you didn't actively kill him, if there was an accident and you failed to save him, then you're as good as a murderer."

A wave of gasps and whispers moved through the spectators like a gust of wind bowing the grass in a meadow, and Draco felt himself blanch, because this last accusation, at least, was horribly true. Harry had disappeared and Draco had failed to find him, which made Draco if not a murderer, then at least a miserable, incompetent creature.

"I object most vehemently to this unjust accusation!" cried Mr Snodgrass, Draco's defender. "Failing to prevent an accident does not make anyone a murderer. If that were so, how many among us are free of guilt?"

"You stand reprimanded, Mr Dobson-Brown," said Judge Wagstaff. "Kindly keep to the facts." He glanced at his timepiece and added: "That will be enough for today. The Wizengamot will be in recess until Tuesday."

The sound of the gavel held a finality that gave Draco gooseflesh. As the guards led him out of the chambers, a camera flash went off in his face and blinded him. By the time they reached the courtyard his vision had returned and his heart sank. The thestrals were waiting to take him back to Azkaban.

xxx

"You have a visitor." The prison guard could make the most trivial piece of information sound menacing, and this one was delivered with a sneer.

Draco didn't reply, only rose from the bed, held out his hands for the Incarcerous and followed the guard to the small, gloomy visitor's room. When he saw who it was he couldn't keep the astonishment out of his voice.

"Granger?" Of all the faces in the world, hers was not one he'd expected to see.

"Weasley," she corrected, thin-lipped, and threw a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ on the table between them.

MALFOY DESTROYS EVIDENCE, the headline screamed at him. The accompanying photo showed him flanked by two of the half-trolls that Azkaban now employed as guards. Their enormous bulk dwarfed him; his hands were bound and he looked pale-faced and wild-eyed. Half deranged; a schoolbook example of a criminal. Of course this man must be a murderer.

"Well, _did_ you destroy evidence?" Granger asked, her voice hard.

He couldn't think of her as Weasley.

"No," he said. There was nothing else to say. There was really nothing to say at all.

"Did you kill him?"

"No."

"What happened to him? Do you know where he is?"

"I have nothing to tell you. One minute he was there, the next he was gone. Nothing else."

Nothing except his own frantic shouts and the endless minutes of searching, diving, surfacing, panting, shaking wet hair out of his eyes; looking around desperately and seeing only shore and sea. And the hours after, when he searched everywhere, calling Harry's name until he lost his voice…

"You believe he drowned, then." She tried to sound matter of fact but her mouth twisted and her knuckles were white as though the bone showed through the skin.

Hopelessness welled up like a muddy spring. "I don't know, Granger."

Her eyes were unnaturally bright as she leaned across the table and Draco shied away, dreading her touch. He was only just getting used to loneliness and cold; he couldn't allow her to get past his brittle defences.

"I want to help," she said, seeking his eyes. "If you're telling the truth, please let me help."

Of all the faces he hadn't expected to see; of all the words he hadn't expected to hear.

"You can't."

She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "You mean you don't want my help?"

Draco shivered, feeling colder than ever before. "I mean it's not possible to help. Everyone's been waiting for something to happen, to get an opportunity like this, waiting like dogs or wolves, panting with their tongues out of their mouths and following my every move, and now they've got their jaws around this chunk of meat they're not going to let go. You can't help."

There was a small, unexpected smile on Granger's face then, like a glimpse of sun through heavy clouds.

"Watch me," she said.

xxx

He told her everything, not because he thought it would make any difference to the outcome, but simply because she was there to listen and it was a relief to talk. The magical law enforcement in Finistère had been polite but clearly wanted nothing to do with him, only wished to hand him over to London, and in London he was a pariah, barely worth the time of day. Everyone had been convinced of his guilt before he had even opened his mouth.

So now he told Granger everything in a low voice while he picked at the frayed cuffs of his striped, pyjama-like prisoner's clothes to avoid meeting her eyes.

"I promise you I'll do everything I can," she said before she left.

In the end, it equalled zero. All her research and her outraged protests of "this so-called evidence is purely circumstantial!" went unheeded, and the Wizengamot sentenced Draco to five years in Azkaban, which they found appropriate for the mere suspicion of having killed Harry Potter, even though his body had still not been found. Draco knew it was really punishment for the fact that he'd been running the Death Eaters' errands during the war. Many had wanted to see him thrown into Azkaban then, and Harry's testimony and possibly his mother's actions had been the only things to save him. Now they could have their revenge at last.

xxx

At first, every day in Azkaban seemed identical to its miserable predecessor, but over time, Draco began to notice subtle differences in light and sound according to weather, time of day and, later, season. There was a small, barred, unglazed window just below the ceiling; he couldn't reach it to look out, but it let in light and allowed him to hear the wind and the sea.

He spent the first weeks in a state of numbness, simply staring at the walls until he knew the structure of every inch of them. As the shock wore off, he gradually began to experiment with magic, and found that although there were wards against most kinds of magic, there were some that could be performed – such as taking on Animagus form. Sirius Black had protected himself from madness by turning into a dog, Harry had said, and Draco found it was true – it was easier in animal form. Conditions had been infinitely worse in Black's day, when the Dementors had held Azkaban in the grip of their skeletal hands, but some of their terrible power seemed to have stored itself in the walls, for the place still ate away at the soul and drained the inmates of all joy and hope.

In his cat form Draco could roll himself into a ball and sleep, not minding either the hard bed or the cold, or even the food so much. As the weather grew colder, his silvery fur grew thick with long, glossy grey hairs over a fluffy, white undercoat. He suspected he was rather a handsome cat, if there had been anyone there to appreciate it.

His cat form provided him with better night vision and better hearing. The hush and roar of the sea were always present, a soothing backdrop of whispers in a language he did not at first understand. During that winter in Azkaban, he learned.

xxx

It was snowing outside, and now and again a few snowflakes found their way through the bars to stick in Draco's hair and melt on his face.

_My father died here,_ he thought.

The circumstances of Lucius Malfoy's death had never been satisfactorily cleared up, but Draco began to see how it could have happened. Warming spells didn't work in here and hypothermia seemed a more than likely cause of death.

Draco's common sense told him to take Animagus form but, as a cat, he didn't dream or think very well about his human life. Now he sat shivering on the bed in his human form with the blanket around his shoulders and dreamed of warmth and colour, of the eiderdown in his four-poster at Malfoy Manor, of a roaring fire in the ornate fireplace… He wanted to dig his toes into the bright patterns of the oriental rug, with a tray of hot tea and buttered crumpets at his elbow… and then his mind began to wander to even pleasanter things.

His imagination placed the crumpet in Harry's hand, tilted it a little to let the melted butter run down the bare arm for Draco's tongue to catch. Harry's eyes glittered in the dancing light as he stretched out in front of the fire, all his clothes removed, just for Draco. And Draco closed his eyes to feel the smoothness of Harry's bare shoulder against his lips, his fingers playing over Harry's ribs making gooseflesh whisper across the skin, until Harry laughed and batted his hand away, pulling him down into a kiss. Then, afterwards, they'd lie together in sated silence, fingertips tracing idle patterns over hot, damp skin…

Draco opened his eyes to darkness and rough, icy walls that swallowed the sound of his voice and scraped his knuckles bloody.

_I have to do something,_ he thought, shivering. _I need to keep myself sane. I need to make myself remember there's another reality out there. My own reality._

xxx

So Draco began to tell himself stories, Sheherazade-like; telling himself his own memories to keep them alive.

He spent the winter in a strange borderland of the mind. He slept in cat form, escaping into dreams filled with scents and leaps and small rustling noises. Awake and in human form, he took himself two years into the past while the sea whispered and roared far below his window, a wild, free force surrounding his icy prison.

xxx

The Malfoys had a castle in France, the Château Maléfice, near the rather grim wizarding village of Sombre-sur-Mer on the Brittany coast, just where France stretched an arm, or perhaps shoved an elbow, into the Atlantic Ocean. Draco had spent most of his childhood summers there before Lord Voldemort's terror had descended over the world and Draco's own life had dissolved into darkness and fear.

After Lucius had found his last resting-place in the mausoleum at Malfoy Manor there had been nothing to keep Narcissa and Draco in England, and they had decided to move to the château permanently. Their social circle was now nearly non-existent. Narcissa became more and more of a recluse, and all Draco had was time. Time to think.

In the maelstrom that had been his last year at Hogwarts, and during the very dark year that followed, he had reached the terrifying conclusion that everything he had done, every choice he had made, had been wrong. And he had begun to see Lucius' weakness clearly, the weakness that made him bow down before the Dark Lord and forget to protect his own family. The path Lucius had chosen had eventually led to destruction – when he had at long last remembered where his true loyalty ought to lie, it had been too late.

Narcissa had never forgotten, Draco thought. She hadn't even cared whose lives she saved or sacrificed if it meant she could save her son's, and she hadn't cared whether she risked her own. Lucius had been the one who was afraid.

In the end, after his rage and accusations and futile questions of _why_ had died down, Draco had come to the conclusion that the only thing that made sense was to forgive his father and let go of the past. Everyone had their fate to fulfil, their own struggles and demons. And Lucius was finally at peace.

It seemed unlikely, Draco thought, that he would ever have a family of his own, but if he did, he would protect them better.

xxx

Three years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Draco turned twenty-one, and Narcissa wanted to throw him a small party. After the death of Bellatrix, Narcissa had been reconciled with Andromeda, and now asked whether Draco would mind a visit from Andromeda and little Teddy Lupin.

Draco shrugged; he was supremely unconcerned with parties or celebrations. It had been a long time since twenty-one had any legal implications; these days it was only a number, and he had other things to think about. He felt he was floundering, unsure what to do with his life, wanting to find a purpose. Birthday celebrations felt utterly inconsequential, but he had liked Aunt Andromeda well enough the one time he had met her.

With the arrival of the guests on the day before Draco's birthday, the whole atmosphere of the place changed. Windows were thrown open to the breeze, Narcissa's face came alive in a way Draco hadn't seen for years, and laughter echoed as Teddy tore through the rooms like a small but powerful tornado.

No one in their right mind would call the château a beautiful building. It consisted of a tight cluster of towers and turrets, with a small, lower section that housed the main sitting-rooms and had a roof terrace with crenellated walls. The bedrooms were all in the towers. It was an eccentric construction – from certain angles it looked like a bunch of fat crayons with their points upwards, or, as Lucius had said once when he was drunk and in a critical mood, like a group of petrified toadstools.

It perched on a steep cliff directly above the sea, with a set of narrow steps leading down to a small, private beach. On the inland side of the castle were the formal gardens, not large but beautiful and scrupulously kept. In the middle was a maze.

The box-hedges were pruned and shaped to perfection, only knee-high for an average-height adult, but for children the maze offered an adventure. It was charmed to stop its visitors stepping or climbing over the hedges – once they had entered the maze, they had to find their way to its centre. Only then did the hedges give way to let them out. In the centre itself was an ancient, magnificent rose bush that bloomed lavishly from June to October. The scent floated in the air like exquisite perfume, and when a visitor reached the centre, the innocent white roses blushed crimson.

Despite – or perhaps because of – its lack of conventional elegance, Draco had always loved the château. He loved the winding stairs, the deep window recesses and oddly shaped rooms, the sea light and the eerie, gothic paintings in the north tower gallery. The beach below the castle tempted the eye with its crescent of smooth sand embraced by dark, craggy rocks. Draco could sit for hours watching the sea, grey and sinister on cloudy days, exotic turquoise or cool, deep blue when the sun was out, forever changing.

When he showed Teddy the maze, the gardens resounded with shouts of delight and occasionally of frustration as the boy took a wrong turning. Draco was amused. Having known the way since he was five years old, he could find the centre blindfolded.

In the afternoon he took Teddy to the beach and watched the boy's hair turn bright pink with excitement. It was still too cold to swim and the tide was out anyway, so they spent an hour strolling around on the sand flats, collecting shells and being windblown, finally returning to the château with their hair stiff with salt.

Next morning, Draco woke up with a gasp as something pounced on him, and found Teddy bouncing on the springy mattress and shaking him.

"Draco, wake _up_! It's your birthday! Gran's making a cake, and Uncle Harry's coming!"

He slid off the bed and ran out of the room; excited whoops echoing along the corridor and down the stairs. Draco rubbed his eyes, yawning, and then sat upright as the boy's words hit home. _Harry?_

Yes, Teddy had indeed referred to Harry Potter, Andromeda confirmed with a smile as he confronted her in the château kitchen. Draco marched upstairs to the drawing-room and cornered Narcissa. "Mother, please tell me you didn't invite Harry Potter to my twenty-first."

Narcissa looked more relaxed than he had seen her in years. Her cool, regal beauty was accentuated by the flowing light and her eyes were as blue and clear as the sea.

"I did not," she replied calmly. "But when Andie asked whether he could come, I couldn't very well refuse. He's Teddy's godfather, you know."

Draco bristled. "_She_ invited him? And he said _yes_? What are we supposed to _do_ with him?"

"Darling," his mother replied in the sweet, steely voice he knew so well, "I certainly hope Mr Potter is capable of behaving civilly in company, and I know for a fact that _you_ are, so see to it that you do. We will entertain him to the best of our ability like we would any other guest."

For a fleeting moment, Draco remembered Potter being brought to Malfoy Manor by Fenrir Greyback, and shuddered.

"A little better than last time, you mean," he said. There was bitter sarcasm in his voice.

A cloud passed over Narcissa's beautiful features as she pulled away from her son.

"I've paid my dues," she said.

xxx

Spring came even to Azkaban. The quality of light changed, and Draco sat watching its slow progression around the walls of his cell. The rosy hue of morning acquired a bright, brassy note by noon, and ripened to deep gold as the day went by. It never reached the floor.

The sounds of the sea came in clearer after the winter hush. Wet, breathy voices spoke to him, told him of ocean liners and weather changes, of sea creatures and rain, and he listened, listened.

His mind was drifting; he needed an anchor. Like Sheherazade he continued his storytelling.

xxx

Harry Potter arrived at the Château Maléfice late in the afternoon on Draco's twenty-first birthday, and Draco watched him take Narcissa's coolly outstretched hand, hug Andromeda and kiss her on the cheek, and lift Teddy in the air and spin around with him until they were both laughing. The laughter still lingered in his eyes as he turned to Draco and held out his hand.

"Malfoy," he said. "Happy birthday."

A long, long time ago they had been small boys on board a train, and Draco had offered some pompous advice along with his hand. Now he could only smile at the irony as he shook Potter's hand. Potter grinned back, and the first, awkward meeting was out of the way.

Draco was unsure how to behave towards Potter, staggering a little under the weight of their shared history. As the evening wound on and there was no hostility in Potter's demeanour, only a barely noticeable reticence, Draco decided the best thing to do was to treat him with politeness, like a guest he didn't know. Which wasn't far from the truth anyway.

Owing largely to well-chilled champagne and an energetic Teddy, it was a surprisingly enjoyable birthday dinner, when he also learned the astonishing fact that Andromeda and Narcissa had kept in touch with their cousin Sirius after he'd run away from home to stay with the Potters.

"We had to be extremely careful, of course," Andromeda said. "We couldn't let Bellatrix suspect anything, or Father or Aunt Walburga. So it didn't happen very often, but an owl now and then, and once or twice we sneaked out to meet him."

When Teddy had gone to bed and the ladies had withdrawn to Narcissa's rooms in the south tower, Draco found himself with Potter and a bottle of whisky in front of the fire in the small sitting-room next to the blue guest room. The window was open to let in the sound of waves.

"So what's next for you?" asked Draco politely. "Aunt Andromeda said you just passed your Auror exam."

Potter shrugged, leaning forward to place his tumbler on the table. The Aurors obviously followed a strict physical fitness regime – the muscles of Potter's arms were clearly defined and his skin was tanned against the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt, as if he had spent a lot of time outdoors. His hands were square and strong, with a strange, pale scarring across the back of one. It looked faintly like writing.

"I declined the job offer," he said, looking into the fire. "I went straight into Auror training after the eighth year at Hogwarts; maybe I should have stopped and thought about what I really wanted to do. I think I've had enough of hunting down bad guys for a while, if not for the rest of my life." He caught himself, threw a quick glance at Draco and grinned apologetically. "Well, you know."

"Believe me," said Draco, "I _do _know."

Potter gave a surprised laugh. "I guess you do."

Draco steeled himself. If they were going to have this awkward conversation, and they probably had to at some point, they might as well have it now.

"Potter, I…" He cleared his throat. "Since we're on the subject… I never thanked you. And I never apologised, either."

Potter was looking straight at him, eyes unreadable behind the glasses that reflected the firelight. Draco's face was hot.

"So I'm saying it now. Thanks for what you did, and I'd like to apologise for all the stupid things back at school. I..." He stopped, not knowing how to go on, because how did you apologise for making someone's life hell, just because you were frightened and hadn't learned the proper value of things? How did you say _sorry for being an idiot?_ He gulped, waiting for Potter's reply with something like dread. It was suddenly very important that his apology should be accepted.

"You didn't have to do either," Potter finally replied, "but thanks." He took his glass from the table and sat rolling it between his hands. "I suppose... it can't have been easy for you."

"Well," Draco said, trembling so hard with emotion that he didn't dare lift his own glass, "not from our sixth year, no. Up until then it was just, I don't know, a game. But when the Dark Lord ordered me to kill Dumbledore, it was suddenly more real than I had ever wanted."

"I saw it, you know," said Potter quietly, looking down at the golden liquid swirling in his tumbler. "I was in the tower when you tried to kill him. And I saw you lower the wand."

"You were _there_? How could you – "

"I'm sure you've heard about my Invisibility Cloak," said Potter dryly. "A good thing for you Dumbledore had Immobilised me."

Draco bit back a reply and exhaled a little shakily. "I spent the next year trying to convince myself that I would have done it if Snape hadn't arrived, that I _could_ have. But I saw too many of the things that the Dark Lord did that year; I didn't want to be part of it. All I wanted was to stay alive, and for my family to stay alive. Basically I spent those two years being _scared_, scared out of my mind, and doing some unforgivable things because of it."

Potter looked up then and smiled a little. "Everyone's scared in a war. I was, too. Your mother was, but she still saved me to save you. Whoever isn't scared isn't human. Let's not talk about this any more, Malfoy. You've apologised, I accept your apology, we can go on from here."

Draco watched the small dimple in Potter's cheek and thought he could understand why people liked Potter. He was straight-forward and pragmatic but far from insensitive, and also more than fair. It was no small thing, forgiving someone for something that had gone on for years.

Suddenly Potter gave a tremendous yawn. "Sorry," he said, stretching so that Draco had to avert his eyes from the strip of bare skin between shirt and jeans. "I'm knackered."

Draco drained his glass and stood up. "Me too. Spending the day with a three year old is hard work! He woke me up this morning by jumping on me. Hope you can sleep in there, Potter. If Phineas Nigellus bothers you, you can just turn him to the wall."

Potter laughed. "I rather like Phineas Nigellus," he said. "And by the way, can we stop calling each other by last name?"

xxx

On the beach the next day, with Teddy shouting and prancing in the icy waves, Harry confessed this was his first visit abroad. Draco tried to hide his astonishment.

"I'll have to show you Finistère properly, then," he said. "It's really beautiful."

They followed the coast by boat and ashore, along wild, craggy cliffs and white beaches, watching the lovely grey-green of salt-hardy plants against dark rocks, and the sharp glitter of the sundrenched sea.

Ever since Draco was a child he had loved oysters, and even though they weren't strictly in season, Harry had to try them. Draco taught him to open them and stared at his throat, fascinated and turned on, as he devoured them. Harry was introduced to local cider and chouchen, and Draco thought he had never loved Finistère quite this much.

The only thing that wasn't a success was their trip to the small island of Ouessant. When they Apparated on to the boulder beach there was a storm rising, and spray flew in the wind.

"Dramatic, isn't it?" Draco shouted against the wind. "We have to see the Kreac'h!"

But Harry had a furrow between his eyebrows and didn't want to look at lighthouses at all. The waves were the colour of lead, crested with white.

"Can we leave, please?" he shouted back. "It's beautiful, but I want to go back."

When they had returned to the château and sat in the kitchen with a pot of tea, Harry explained, a little embarrassed:

"When I turned eleven, I still didn't know anything about the wizarding world. My aunt and uncle had never told me anything; they didn't want me to know. When the Hogwarts letter arrived, Uncle Vernon burnt it, and however many letters Hogwarts sent, he destroyed them so I couldn't read them. On my birthday he took us all to a horrible little house on a rock way out to sea, just to stop me getting the letters. The weather was like it was today… I guess I had some kind of reaction. I'm sorry."

Draco found he was staring. "What happened then?"

"Hagrid came and got me," Harry said, and laughed a little. "So there wasn't much Uncle Vernon could do."

They sat in silence, wrapping their numb fingers around the tea mugs to thaw out.

"Listen," Draco said, "showing you Finistère has reminded me how much I like travelling. A friend of Mother's has a house in Sicily she'd let us have for a few weeks. Would you like to go?"

It was all on impulse, but suddenly he wanted Harry to say yes very badly. He had been to Italy several times but never to Sicily, and exploring a new place with Harry would be… exciting. The thought of the two of them together, alone in a house… His heart pounded.

"Yeah," Harry said, surprised, and held Draco's gaze. "Yeah, I'd like that."

A few days later, they left for Sicily.

xxx

Even in Azkaban, you noticed the change of seasons. Summer meant soft breeze and the cries of seagulls, autumn brought golden light and grey rain, and a chill that crept into the bones. And then winter returned once more.

xxx

Narcissa stood on top of the steep cliffs waiting to be cleared for Apparition to the Azkaban gates. Her hair blew wildly around her in the wind and her cloak flapped. Draco had always loved apples, and Narcissa clutched one in her hand, the very last of the Cox's Orange Pippins from the meagre crop the Malfoy Manor orchards had yielded this year. Most likely the guards wouldn't allow her to give it to Draco, but it was worth a try.

A year had passed and he was allowed visitors at last, as a reward for good behaviour. Narcissa had returned to Malfoy Manor. It was time, she thought; she couldn't hide out in France forever.

But returning to England had its price. The large black headlines of the _Daily Prophet_ and other wizarding publications ran through her mind as she waited. She was the Malfoy Matriarch, The Double-Edged Heroine, The Ice-Queen with a Heart of Fire. The press loved her face, loved to watch cracks in the façade; they greedily lapped up her tears and rejoiced in her pain. They watched her with triumph and barely hidden glee, and gloated over Draco's Azkaban sentence. The Malfoys were the Death Eaters the wizarding press loved to hate, but even as they derided and mocked, there was an undercurrent of admiration for Narcissa. After all, she had lied to the Dark Lord about Harry Potter being dead. Who would have thought that a Death Eater's wife could show courage?

The press found the Malfoy combination of looks, wealth and ancient bloodlines irresistible, and so did the public. _There is so much for them to hate,_ Narcissa thought, _and so little to identify with_. They let their disdain pour forth when they had an easy target with no defences left. It allowed them to feel righteous and relieved that it was someone else, not them; pleased to have a scapegoat to carry the burden for them. Die for them, too, if it came to that.

Narcissa had lost her husband to Azkaban; she wasn't going to lose her son, too.

_And it's not even as if Lucius did such horrible things in the war_, Narcissa thought wearily. _There are those who committed worse crimes, a hundred times worse. Lucius' mistake was being so close to the Dark Lord – people don't understand what it was like to stand next to Lord Voldemort and see him for what he was, see your own faith turn to fear, and realise there is no way out._

But those who would truly have had reason to spit on the Malfoys had not done so. Her own sister, Andromeda. And Harry Potter.

Narcissa squared her shoulders in the icy wind and remembered Harry Potter's calm face in the witness stand as he got them out of Azkaban. How ironic that Draco should go to prison for him now! She remembered him mumbling hastily to her afterwards, when she and Draco left the Wizengamot chambers as free citizens: "I know you really did it for Draco and not for me, but it was still very brave." Harry Potter saw too much, knew too much for someone his age. Perhaps he had been thinking of his own mother, who had died for him like Narcissa would have died for Draco.

And Narcissa had noticed her son's frequent glances at Harry Potter then, seen his grey eyes hold a strange mix of admiration, disdain and something else that she would only identify years later, in Bretagne.

The clearance signal from Azkaban lit up before her like a sparkler. She took a deep breath and Apparated across the wild water.

When the heavy gates swung open she expected them to creak, like they had when she had visited her husband, but things were better cared for these days and they were silent. They seemed even more foreboding and frightening like this. Shuddering, she entered.

It was a year since she had seen Draco last, and she braced herself in preparation for his changed appearance, but when she saw him she bit her tongue in shock. There was no flesh at all, only papery skin pulled taut over bone, and his face was all eyes under the matted hair.

She found no words, but when she reached out to pull him to her, the guard barked: "No touching!"

They seated themselves on opposite sides of the table and looked at one other, not knowing what to say, what could possibly be said.

"I brought you something," she remembered at long last. "Can I give him this?" she pleaded to the guard, holding out her hand with the apple on her palm.

"No. Nothing can change hands."

"If he doesn't eat it? Can he just smell it?"

"You go first then, lady," the guard sneered. "You eat half, and if nothing funny happens, he can have the rest."

Narcissa obediently ate half the apple, watching Draco swallow as he imagined the crisp juicyness in his own mouth, but when she handed him the last half across the table, the guard snatched it up fast as a viper and wolfed it down with obvious, loud enjoyment. Then he grinned, crossed his arms and went back to his earlier position with feet planted firmly apart, staring straight ahead at nothing.

She must have looked stricken, or furious, or both, because Draco just shook his head and smiled a little.

"It's okay," he said, and it was the first time she'd heard him speak. His voice was low and husky, as if he was unused to speaking. "I smelled it. The fragrance is still in the air."

Narcissa stared at him, tears rising to her eyes. She wanted to hex the guard, painfully; then pull Draco into her arms and escape with him – she'd be ready to kill to do so, if she could only figure out a way that wouldn't mean the death of the two of them as well. She felt utterly helpless, and helplessness was not something Narcissa Malfoy did well.

"Is there anything you want?" she asked her son in clipped tones to hide the fact that she was breaking.

Draco laughed. It was a terrible sound, mirthless, cynical, like he couldn't begin to list all the things he wanted, and she knew that what he wanted most she was powerless to give him. His freedom. Harry Potter. Even an apple.

"Food," he said at last.

Narcissa looked at the sharp bones of his wrists and glanced at the guard, who was still staring at nothing but listening to every word.

"I think that may be arranged," she said a little stiffly. "I don't suppose many people are above a little extra income. Would you be amenable to that suggestion?"

She directed the question at the guard, who turned and gave her a long, insolent look.

"If it's enough," he said. "Enough to be worth the trouble."

Narcissa still wanted to kill him, wanted to very much. Instead, she just gave a short nod and turned to Draco again, whose eyes were dreamy and lost somewhere far beyond the room.

"Can you hear the sea?" he asked.

Narcissa frowned. "Not in here, Draco. There are no windows, and the walls are too thick."

"I can."

She had no idea how to respond, but then Draco's eyes cleared and he leaned across the table.

"There's one more thing I want," he said.

"Yes?"

"I want you to talk to Hermione Granger."

xxx

That time in Sicily, in another life.

The first impression of the island was the warm, humid, pine-scented darkness that touched their skin. They had Apparated into a clump of trees just outside the village, and the breeze brought with it the smell of sea, of exhaust fumes, of fish cooked in oil, and of something else, too – unidentified, indefinable; thick and fresh at the same time.

They navigated past a piazza decorated with strings of light, where an astonishing number of people milled around talking or sat at tables having wine or coffee or ice cream. The Corso was even more packed, so crowded they couldn't walk at their own pace but were slowed by the throng. They looked at each other and shrugged, smiling – they were in no hurry.

Their street was not much more than a long, steep and narrow flight of steps leading up from the Corso, but at least it wasn't crowded. Draco was panting when they reached the house, where a lemon tree stretched laden branches over the top of the wall, but Harry was unaffected. Unlocking the cast-iron gate, they went inside into the small garden. It was too dark for them to see much, but there was a heady fragrance of citrus blossom and roses.

When they opened the shutters in the sitting room they saw the lights of the village cascading down the mountainside below them. Down near the bay, glittering like a jewel, was a smaller village.

On the kitchen table they found a bottle of local white wine with a welcome note attached to it with spellotape. They chilled it with a charm and took it out on the balcony. For a while they sat in silence, listening to people talking and laughing down in the village as moths gathered and fluttered around the lantern above the door.

"Thanks for inviting me here," Harry said. "And for showing me Finistère."

Draco replied with a smile. "I'm still wondering why you came to Finistère in the first place."

Harry gave him a sidelong glance and laughed. "Well," he said, "when Andromeda asked me I was going to say no at first, but then… I was curious."

"About me?"

"About you, about your mother. What had happened to you after I'd last seen you. And I guess…"

"What?"

"This sounds a bit weird, but I wanted to see if I could like you. There were some things back then… when you refused to identify me at the Manor, and in the Room of Requirement, and after the Battle of Hogwarts when I saw you with your parents… that made me think that perhaps I could."

Unexpected. Draco wanted to ask, like an eager child: "And did you?", but it would have been too much. Harry was here, after all, so it had to be assumed that he did.

"Anyway," Harry continued, "I'm glad you invited me to stay, and to come here. It's good to get away, get some perspective. Now that I've had some time to think, I know I don't want to be an Auror, at least not straight away. I want to have a couple of years of doing nothing first... nothing but travelling. It hasn't sunk in yet, that I'm actually free to do what I want, and I that have the money to do it. I've only just realised."

They sat in silence, drinking the chilled wine and listening to the wind in the trees. A train whistle sounded somewhere in the distance.

"We've come a long way since Hogwarts," said Harry at last, and grinned. "If someone had told me a few years back that I'd go to Italy with Draco Malfoy, I'd probably have hexed them."

"I feel the same way about you." It came out like a lover's phrase and Draco blushed in the dark. "I remember thinking at King's Cross when we were eleven, that I'd make friends with Harry Potter. And it seems that I did – I just didn't know it would take ten years."

"God, it feels like a lifetime ago. I knew absolutely nothing about the wizarding world. I remember you from that first day, of course. When the Sorting Hat placed you in Slytherin, you looked so pleased. Or maybe triumphant rather than pleased."

"I _was_ pleased," said Draco, draining his glass and thinking back. "And slightly relieved, even if I didn't realise it at the time. Nearly everyone in my family had been in Slytherin, and those who hadn't were regarded with suspicion at best. Or hated and cursed and burnt off of the family tree, like Sirius Black."

Something crossed Harry's face like a shadow, but was gone so quickly Draco wasn't sure he'd seen it.

"The Sorting Hat wanted to place me in Slytherin," he said.

Draco set his glass down. "It _wanted_ to? Why didn't it?"

"Because I asked it not to."

Draco almost choked. It was so typical of Harry to say something extraordinary like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You asked the Sorting Hat?"

"Sort of. You can argue with it, you know. Although it was more like frantic babbling. I think the Hat was intrigued."

Draco realised he was staring and turned his face away. A moth fluttered desperately against the glass of the lantern, and from the street below, a woman's laugh floated up to them on the breeze.

"That's interesting," he said. "The thought of you in Slytherin. I wonder what you'd have become. Anyway, I'd never have placed you in any other house than Gryffindor. You're the quintessential Gryffindor, aren't you? I guess you had family traditions to uphold, too."

Harry didn't reply, and his face was in shadow when he leaned forward and refilled their glasses.

"Why did the Hat want to put you in Slytherin, though? Was it because of the… of your…"

"You can say it, you know." Harry's quiet voice sent goosebumps whispering over Draco's arms and down his back. "Because I was a Horcrux? I suppose so. The Hat saw Voldemort in me, perhaps."

Draco winced at the name. "Were you aware?"

"No. For years I only knew that my scar hurt when he was close, but it got worse as he grew stronger. It wasn't until our fifth year, when he had physical form again, that the mind link between us came alive."

"So there _was_ a mind link? How did it work?"

"Draco, if you know I was a Horcrux, you must know that, too."

"Well," said Draco, embarrassed, "I only know what I've read."

"I was inside his head," said Harry flatly after a short pause. "I knew where he was, what he was doing, what he was feeling – I could see everything through his eyes, feel what he felt. So when I told you before that I'd never been abroad, it wasn't quite true – I had, but not as myself. Only from inside Voldemort's head."

Draco shuddered. "Did it work in the other direction, too? Was he in _your_ head?"

"Not quite like that. Sometimes he could read my feelings, but he didn't know where I was, and I could mostly block him from my thoughts even though I was pants at Occlumency. Still am, by the way, although I'm a lot better at it after the Auror training." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and looked up to meet Draco's eyes. "I don't really want to talk about this any more, at least not tonight. Voldemort's dead and I don't want to have him interfering with my holiday."

Draco snorted. "No, I'm sure you don't," he said. "Sorry I brought it up. I'm just interested."

A soft silence drew out between them, and finally they went inside, closing the shutters so they could open them to a new world the next morning.

xxx

It all looked very different in daylight, as most things tend to do. In the daylight it was the sea, not the village, that glittered far below. The slope behind the house was silvery with old, gnarled olive trees; the tiny garden held palm trees, white oleander and pink hibiscus, and a marmalade cat slept in a garden chair.

To their delight, the house turned out to have a roof terrace with a pool, lined with pots of bright red geraniums, and between two pines they could see the peak of Mount Etna. There was a lizard on the wall, decoratively black against the creamy white; the terracotta tiles burned the soles of their feet. Somewhere nearby, a dog was barking. 

They lazed by the pool all morning, and although Draco valiantly tried not to look at Harry stretched out nearly naked only a foot or so away, his eyes strayed and from time to time he had to cool off in the water.

In the late afternoon they went for a walk, sat for a while in the quiet shade of the public gardens and climbed up to the Greek theatre.

The view from the hill was breathtaking, and they climbed up around the theatre to get to the highest point. A small snake lay sunning itself on top of a wall, raising its head and flicking its tongue as they got closer. Harry stopped and spoke to it in a series of gentle hisses, and the snake responded. Draco swallowed, shivering in the sun; his eyes wandering from Harry to the snake and back again.

When they climbed down the rows of seats to find a good view, he couldn't stop himself. "So you're still a Parselmouth, even with the Dark Lord gone."

Harry's shoelaces had come undone and he tied them with a spell. "You can say his name, you know," he said, not looking up. "Yes, I'm still a Parselmouth. I'm actually quite pleased by that."

"God," said Draco, "I remember when I threw a Serpensortia at you, and you spoke to the snake in Parseltongue."

"I remember it too," said Harry dryly. "I was treated like a leper after."

"I felt like I'd been struck by lightning – I thought it was the coolest thing ever." He had nearly said "sexiest", which was true even if his twelve year old self had only vaguely recognised this. "And really unfair. I mean, you weren't even in Slytherin – why did _you_, of all people, have that rare, Slytherin-related gift?"

"Well, now you know. You can't really envy me."

"No, I know. But back then…"

Back then, it had increased Draco's hate-love for Harry Potter hundredfold.

He sat back and looked out over the theatre. The construction had been started by the Greeks and finished by the Romans, and even in its ruins, it was still as dramatic as any play that could ever have been enacted there. The back wall behind the stage had fallen down, opening up a perfect view of the steep hillside – from the top where it disappeared in clouds, to the bottom where the scooped-out landscape sloped down to the glittering bay. The village seemed to stretch out its arms, waiting to receive the waves. Perfectly centred between the red columns of the theatre, Mount Etna rose, hazy blue and imposing.

Harry leaned back on his elbows and stretched out his legs, a fine sheen of sweat on his face and the dark hair curling at the temples. When he turned to Draco and smiled, Draco fought an impulse to lean forward and lick away the tiny beads forming along the hairline, touch the scar on the forehead with his tongue.

Draco forced his gaze away from Harry to the green slope beyond the theatre. The palms were like green fireworks, the cypresses dark exclamation marks, the olive trees silvery, the pines like green clouds. A lizard darted across the rock seat below them and disappeared into a crack; a butterfly landed on Draco's knee for a moment and fluttered away unsteadily.

Harry leaned forward to rest his forearms on his thighs, and threw a grin at Draco over his shoulder. "I'm starving," he said. "Let's go and have something to eat."

They did, watching the sky turn iridescent at dusk and Mount Etna fade to a soft blue silhouette as they ate. The moon was a bright, newly polished coin.

In bed that night, Draco lay awake in the darkness, fighting images of Harry that refused to leave him alone.

The next morning, they set off to explore the village but ended up sitting at a café while a torrential rain shower washed the streets clean. Draco was intensely aware of Harry's presence, of their proximity; sensing more than seeing every small movement, every nuance and shade of Harry's face and voice. He wondered if there was going to be thunder; there was a strange sensation behind his eyes.

When the rain eased a little they walked again, breathing in the scent of wet stone, coffee and fresh cannoli, until they reached a large square with chequered paving and a view over the bay. The rain stopped completely and the bells in the tower on the other side of the square broke into song, rich and melodic, drowning even the vivid chirp and twitter of hundreds of sparrows in the euphorbia tree.

When they leaned against the railing their arms touched, and for the first time Draco put it into words in his head: _I'm in love with him._ The process had begun for real in Finistère but had been set in motion much earlier, probably already at their first meeting on the Hogwarts Express. He wondered what he was going to do about it, if anything.

They turned towards each other at the same time, both going to say something and both stopping themselves. Draco's heart nearly stopped, too, and he inhaled sharply through his nose. It was a breathtaking picture – Harry's dark hair and tanned face against the backdrop of hazy sea and sky, the air soft with moisture after the rain, thick clouds chasing each other grey-on-grey, and a hibiscus tree offering a splash of colour, an almost startling contrast, a dark red cry.

They stared at each other for an endless moment, and Draco couldn't stop his eyes wandering over Harry's lips, the dark stubble shading his chin, the tiny shadow below the Adam's apple. When he raised his eyes he found that Harry was looking at him in much the same way – mouth, throat, downwards… until his gaze came to rest below the collarbone, at the top of the long, jagged, silvery scar that Harry himself had given Draco in their sixth year at Hogwarts.

When he lifted his eyes again, they had darkened to an intensity that made Draco's breath catch. Harry reached out and touched Draco's wrist, very gently, and there was nothing else in the world but fingertips brushing skin.

"God, I can't do this," Harry muttered under his breath. "I can't go on pretending. You can punch me if you like, but I want to… I want to kiss you. I..."

Lust, desire, triumph shot white-hot through Draco's body, setting every nerve-ending alight. His lips parted but his mouth was dry and he couldn't get a word out. Instead he held Harry's eyes with his own, smiling a little as he gestured with his head towards the buildings up on the mountainside, indicating their house, and raised his eyebrows in a query. Harry made an odd little noise, a kind of choked back laugh that came out in a puff of air.

"_Yes_," he said.

They didn't notice the crowds as they headed back along the Corso; nothing mattered except what was going to happen. As they stumbled up the steps to their house, Draco touched Harry's jeans-clad arse, and the look Harry threw him made him bite the inside of his lip in anticipation.

The hall was dark and they grasped each other blindly, Harry's hands cupping Draco's face as they kissed, his tongue in Draco's mouth. Hands slid under clothing over electric hot skin, and Draco's fingers fumbled Harry's jeans open.

"God," Harry breathed. "You have no idea how much I've wanted this."

_Tell me_, Draco wanted to say, but he was too turned on to think properly. He dropped to his knees to hold Harry's hips and _smell_ him, his mouth watering. Harry trembled under his hands and there was no time for finesse, no need for it. Draco just closed his eyes and took Harry in his mouth.

Later, in Draco's room where light fell softly through the slats of the shutters, Draco sat on the edge of the bed with Harry kneeling behind him. Both of them were already hard again, and Harry's mouth moved up the side of Draco's neck to his ear, his hand on Draco's thigh.

Draco's breath caught as he took Harry's hand, lifted it from his thigh and closed it around his cock, with his own fingers around it. He gasped as he leaned back against Harry, stroking slowly, watching his cock slide through both their fists, Harry's tongue following the shell of his ear. His head fell back on Harry's shoulder as he tensed and moaned and came.

xxx

The rest of their stay in Sicily was like a lush, floating dream.

They walked together on cracked pavement under jacaranda trees, swam in the Mediterranean, went to watch a local Quidditch match, and everything they did and said seemed to have added meaning, an undercurrent of excitement. Tiny touches, shared secrets, and long nights. It was magic in its best sense, its best form.

_It can't last, _Draco thought.

Ultimately, of course, he was right.

xxx

Two years of travel, two years of visiting every country in Europe, and then they were back at the Château Maléfice to stay.

It was a beautiful August evening, with white, heavy stars and a moon hanging just above the horizon. The sea was breathing like a living creature, smooth and satiny black.

"We'll never have this night again," Harry said. "Let's sleep on the beach."

They lay on their backs in the sand and watched the star-strewn sky, tracing constellations, marvelling at the beauty. Draco glanced at Harry's faintly moonlit profile, but he seemed far away, lost in the stars.

"Where are you?" said Draco softly. "Come back to me."

Harry turned and raised himself on an elbow to touch Draco's face.

"Wherever I am, I'll always come back to you," he said.

"I'll hold you to that," Draco breathed.

In reply, Harry kissed his way down Draco's neck and slipped his hand underneath Draco's shirt.

"I think we're going to need a privacy spell," he murmured, making Draco laugh and shiver with anticipation.

Smooth skin and coarse sand, hot mouths and cool air… and soon Draco was gathering up fistfuls of sand with one hand while the other pushed into Harry's hair, his hips lifting to Harry's mouth.

Afterwards they lay in each other's arms, covered with sweat and sand and come, talking about nothing and everything until Harry sat up and grinned. "We need to get clean."

The sea was glorious, warmer than the night air. They swam and talked, laughed and splashed, kissing drops of water from each other's shoulders.

At long last, Draco gave in to the chill of the sea and headed back up on the beach to get dressed. His clothes felt rough and warm against his skin after the silky smoothness of the water. Smiling, he stood for a minute watching Harry splash and dive, and then leaned down to arrange their sleeping bags on the sand.

"Aren't you coming up?" he called over his shoulder.

When there was no reply he straightened and turned around. The sea was dark and calm before him, the liquid bridge of moonlight unbroken all the way to the small crescent of sand at his feet. There was no sign of Harry, only stillness.

xxx

After two years of his five-year sentence, Draco was released from Azkaban. Narcissa had appealed to the Wizengamot and, with the help of a more competent defender as well as Hermione Weasley who had pulled strings all the way up to Minister Shacklebolt, they had won.

Harry's body had still not been found.

When the gates of Azkaban clanged shut behind him, Draco stood gazing out over the sea, unused to light and motion. It was a windy day, and when he closed his eyes he heard the sea speak of a storm drawing closer. He opened his eyes, took a deep breath and Apparated across the strait to the mainland, where his mother was waiting for him on the cliffs. She was crying but Draco had no tears.

At Malfoy Manor he found all the comforts he had dreamed about in prison – soft rugs, roaring fire, tea, brandy, a long hot bath – but by now he was so acclimatised to the cold that he found the rooms unbearably hot and stuffy, and so unused to alcohol that two sips of brandy made his head spin.

When he went to bed, the mattress was too soft underneath him and the eiderdown so suffocatingly hot that it was impossible to sleep. Finally he gave up and took on his Animagus form. Curled up on top of the bedclothes, blinking at the dying embers in the grate, he sighed deeply and finally went to sleep.

In the morning everything felt unreal. In body Draco was at the Manor, but his mind hadn't yet made the journey.

He went for a walk in the park surrounding the house. Despite the wind in the trees there was a strange silence that he could not at first identify as the absence of the sea. Still unused to colours, he blinked at the green of the grass and the blue of the sky as he went past the greenhouses down to the lake. He stood for a long time watching the waves lap at the strip of pebbles at his feet. The lake was inadequate; so small and tamed. He couldn't hear it speak.

As the weeks went by, Draco began to feel better. His appetite improved, he went for long walks and re-learned to sleep in human form. When an owl arrived from Hermione Weasley in reply to the one he'd sent thanking her for her help, he even felt well enough to meet her for a drink.

It was a relief to talk to someone about Harry, and a relief to get a little drunk and have loud music drown out the absence of sea sounds in his ears. The silence at Malfoy Manor was oppressive, even now that spring was approaching and the birds had begun to sing. There were sounds, but not the right kind.

As Draco contemplated ordering a fourth drink, a very beautiful girl came up to their table and leaned her hip against it, her long, dark hair falling forward over her shoulder as she smiled down at him. She seemed rather shyly aware of her own beauty.

"Hello, Draco," she said. "I don't suppose you remember me?"

She did look familiar – from Hogwarts? One of Pansy's friends? Draco's mind didn't cooperate. Hogwarts seemed like a lifetime ago, like it had happened to someone else.

"I'm Astoria Greengrass," she said. "Daphne's sister."

"Yes, of course. Sorry." He should have seen the likeness, although she was much prettier than her sister. "How is Daphne?"

"Happy," Astoria replied with a smile. "She's on her honeymoon. I'll tell her you asked."

Draco rose and gestured towards his chair. "Do you want to sit?"

She shook her head. "I just came over to say hello. I'll see you next week – it was so nice of your mother to invite Mother and me over to Malfoy Manor. We're looking forward to it."

He followed her with his eyes as she wove her way back through the crowded pub to her own table.

"I wish Mother would tell me when she invites people," he grumbled, "so I could escape."

"That's probably why she doesn't," Hermione said dryly. "I should head home. Thanks for coming, Draco. I wanted to see for myself that you're okay."

When she left he had another Firewhisky, drew invisible figures on the tabletop with a fingertip and let his eyes roam until he found what he was looking for at the bar. A tall, dark boy with a pint in front of him made eye contact, held his gaze a little too long, then met his eyes again… several times, until there was no doubt.

And soon Draco was being expertly sucked off in the reeking alley behind the pub, reluctantly reciprocating with the cobblestones hard and unforgiving under his knees.

He regretted the whole thing almost before they were done, and when he Apparated home he wanted to vomit. It was so empty, so meaningless. Mindless, dirty pleasure for a few minutes, and then only this hollow feeling in his chest. He took a long, hot shower and didn't even try to stop the memories of Harry that flooded back.

He fell asleep with the whisper of waves in his ears, and dreamed of the warm, turquoise water of the Ionian sea.

xxx

The guests arrived, and with them came spring and light.

Spring was lovely that year, with sunny days and cool, soft rains at night. The trees were covered with fine veils of green and the orchards frothed with white and pink blossoms, cherries first, then plums and pears, and apples last. The air was sweet; the birds delirious.

Astoria was pleasant company, intelligent and with a quiet sense of humour, and he could sense how powerful her magic was. As the weeks went by, he found it incomprensible that a girl like her was not married. Even without either beauty or intelligence she would have been eminently eligible, coming from an old, respected and wealthy pureblood family. Her shyness would not have put anyone off – for his part, Draco found it endearing.

He was healing, and knew Astoria had part in it.

They spent most of their time together, walked in the park, played tennis, went rowing on the lake, even Apparated to Stonehenge for an afternoon. She didn't share his enthusiasm for flying but occasionally enjoyed watching him, and to his amusement, Draco found himself showing off for her.

He still dreamed of Harry at night, of the sea calling him, but he knew they were just dreams, echoes of the past. He had spent two intense years with Harry, after all. It was only natural that Harry should still be alive in his mind.

Draco saw that the company of Mrs Greengrass was doing his mother good, too. The Greengrass family had distanced themselves from the Death Eaters in the war, but were firmly of the opinion that crimes were to be forgotten once the sentence had been served, and it was of symbolical importance to Narcissa to be re-accepted by someone from the old days.

When the guests left Malfoy Manor after a month, they took a promise from the Malfoys to visit them in Greece in June.

xxx

Narcissa and Draco kept their promise.

It was a strange experience, once again living by the sea. The whispers of the Aegean had a different note, and didn't call to Draco quite like the North Sea had in Azkaban. Perhaps this was because he had been all attention then, and now was not; perhaps – and he hoped so – it was part of the healing process.

Astoria's presence calmed him and quieted the voices, and his tenderness for her was real and deep. Before coming here, he had worried that his memories of Harry in Greece would overwhelm him, but found he could remember those times with fondness.

They had been sailing off the Ionian coast once. Everything had been white and blue and glittering, Harry's tan had been almost ridiculously deep and even Draco's pale skin had turned golden. As they'd sat at a harbour restaurant on the coast of Epirus, drinking cold, sharp retsina in the shade, Harry had looked at Draco and remarked gravely: "We're pretty nice-looking blokes." Draco had seen his own laughing reflection in Harry's sunglasses, and agreed.

Magic was omnipresent in Greece. There were no real boundaries between the magical and non-magical worlds here; wizards and Muggles continued to live side by side as they had done since ancient times. Magic was an integral part of life and an everyday occurrence in this enchanted place, and it was sometimes impossible to tell magical and non-magical occurrences apart. Muggles felt no need to "expose" the wizarding world; they knew not to talk about it openly with foreigners. By exposing wizards, they would be exposing themselves and their whole way of life. Draco had always felt at ease here.

The Aegean Sea was always changing, in constant flux. It was pale in the morning, blue and sparkling mid-day, dreamily pink and aquamarine when the sun had dipped below the horizon.

Now, at noon, the sun was scorching, and Draco worshipped it from his deck chair by the pool. The house sat high above the sea on top of the nearly vertical cliffs, with foam-crested waves breaking far below.

_We of the cooler climates_, he thought lazily, _we're like lizards, darting out of our dark crevices to let the sun heat our blood._

Sometimes the call of the sea became too strong. When Draco couldn't resist its pull, he Apparated to the other side of the isle where the beaches were long and curved, and wandered along them slowly, listening.

But these occasions were few and far between. He was doing better than he had expected.

When Narcissa said it was time for them to go home, Astoria asked shyly if Draco wouldn't stay on for a few more weeks. He was pleased to. In the evening after Narcissa had left they stood together on the terrace, leaning against the whitewashed wall, watching the sea. White bougainvillea danced ghost-like above them in the breeze, the darkness was warm and humid around them and on the horizon Muggle ferries glittered and twinkled on their way to Naxos, Paros, Folegandros.

Astoria turned and smiled up at Draco, and gave a small, soft gasp when he kissed her.

_I need her_, Draco thought. _I'm better when I'm with her._

It wasn't like it had been with Harry, it was different in so many ways, but Draco felt this was a good thing. Yes, he was sure it was all good.

xxx

Some weeks later they were once again watching the sunset, this time from a restaurant in the small village at the cusp of the sickle-shaped isle. They had shared their grilled swordfish with a black cat who was now fast asleep atop Astoria's feet under the table, and had cups of coffee in front of them. Draco sat watching Astoria's profile and dreaming eyes as she gazed out over the sea.

Everything about her calmed him, except her fingers stroking the back of his neck when they kissed, and the way her soft breasts pressed against him. He was surprised to find he wanted her, in every way.

"Astoria," he said, and his heart was beating frantically at the immensity of what he was about to do, "I was wondering if…"

Almost reluctantly she turned her eyes away from the view. They were softly blue like the sea they'd been watching, and Draco thought how astonishingly, perfectly beautiful she was, before he slid off his chair to rest on one knee before her.

"…if you would marry me?"

Her eyes widened and she drew a startled breath. His fingers were holding hers, just barely; only the tips of his holding the tips of hers, and in a moment of clarity he saw how symbolical it was, how frail. For a fleeting, scorching, painful moment the memory of Harry ripped through him, of Harry's sooty hand hauling him up on the broom in the burning Room of Requirement, of Harry years later in Draco's bed, nearly fucking him into the floor.

_I'm done with all that_, Draco thought, dizzy. _It's in the past._

Astoria was smiling now, and tears glittered in her eyes.

"Yes," she said. And then again, with more force: "Yes!"

Around them people applauded, smiling, and Draco reached up to kiss Astoria's trembling mouth.

xxx

They were married in a small, private ceremony in the chapel at Malfoy Manor. They had decided to live at the Manor, but Draco was getting restless. He wasn't sleeping well and missed the sound of the sea. When he asked Astoria if she would consider moving to the château in Finistère, she said yes.

His life with her was smooth, calm, cool. Their lovemaking was never rough and loud like it had sometimes been with Harry; it was gasps and whispers and the slide of silk on skin. Sometimes Draco missed the complete abandon, the raw grinding lust and greed, but always brushed it aside as sentimentality for something that would never return. It didn't do to look back.

He slept better in Finistère but sometimes woke gasping, having returned in his dreams to his Azkaban cell. Astoria would turn on her side and pull him close, place his hand on her soft breast over the steady beat of her heart and soothe him with sleepy, sympathetic murmurs. Sometimes he'd feel her nipple harden under his palm and they would make love as dawn broke, surrounded by light so pale and grey it barely existed. And Draco would moan softly into her hair as he came, grateful that he was not alone.

Outside, the sea whispered and sighed, retreated and returned, endlessly.

xxx

The moment when the nurse placed Draco's newborn son in his arms was perhaps not the happiest of his life – he was far too exhausted and far too shaken by the extent of Astoria's pain to feel happiness – but it was the single most profound moment of love he had ever experienced.

He gazed at the tiny face and bewildered, unfocused eyes in wonder, amazed that he could feel so strongly about someone so small, someone he had only known for minutes. He knew with absolute certainty that he would protect this small person with his own life without hesitation, and he also knew it was a love that would never go away – deep, all-encompassing; like an ocean. It would not diminish or change unless something occurred that went against the very fabric of nature.

He loved watching Astoria nurse, loved the tired tenderness on her face and the greedy noises the baby made, and vowed to be a better father than Lucius had been.

xxx

Scorpius loved the sea. The summer when he was two years old he discovered the joy of bathing, of throwing handfuls of wet sand into the water and splashing in the shallows. When the waves rolled in and made him lose his balance, he shouted with delight and sent the seagulls wheeling. Draco spent hours on the beach with him, building sandcastles enchanted to last, making mother-of-pearl seawater fountains out of charmed seashells. Astoria sometimes joined them, but she had never loved the water like Draco did.

The sea called to him, pulled at him, rushed through his veins with every heartbeat. He prowled the shores listening to the ocean speak, and the hope that had never quite died in him was re-awakened. By the sea he could sense Harry's presence, and if he only listened carefully enough he would have the answer; he would know the truth.

The château felt increasingly like Astoria's domain and Draco was only a ghost drifting through it, not belonging, or belonging to another age. He would stand in the doorway watching her read to Scorpius by the fireside, feeling the invisible wall between them. Sometimes she looked at him with eyes that were almost frightened, but he didn't know what could possibly frighten her about him. If anything, he was non-existent. Astoria lived for her child; Draco lived for insubstantial murmurs that no one else could hear.

Sometimes he woke up at night as the sounds of the sea moved and curled around him like trails of smoke in the dark, snaking in to fill the room like tendrils of creepers, the waves hissing softly as they died on the sand. _I'm getting closer to the answer_, he would think, and return to sleep.

Once he tried sleeping on the beach, but the memory of the night Harry disappeared was too strong and he lay awake, thinking. When the first glimmer of dawn showed in the sky he sat with his arms around his knees, looking out over the stretches of sand. A boat lay tilting on its keel, waiting for the tide to come in, useless out of its element.

_I'm just like the boat_, Draco thought.

To avoid waking Astoria up, he went to sleep in the blue guest room, and never moved back to their shared bedroom afterwards.

He began to realise he had done all of this before – tried to do what was expected of him, tried to be something he would never become, and it was bound to end in disaster now as it had then.

He regretted marrying Astoria, not for his own sake but because he was making her so unhappy; he regretted trying to silence the voice inside him that insisted Harry was alive. The only thing he didn't regret – could never regret – was Scorpius.

In the end it was Astoria who asked for a divorce.

"You're so distant," she said. "You're never there with me. Always listening to something beyond the room, something… _beyond_."

"I'm so very sorry." His words were sincere but came out sounding flat.

When he touched her face, her tears wet his fingers.

"I still love you," she whispered.

Unable to reply, he leaned down and kissed her forehead.

She returned to England with Scorpius, and Draco spent his days walking along sandy shores, climbing wet rocks and trailing his fingers in water, waiting for a sign.

The light was apocalyptic. Everything looked metallic, not brightly polished but some dull, non-precious, un-cared-for metal; lead or pewter. Hard, numb, unresponsive. There were high, thin clouds like mist, grey but not opaque – they made the sunlight look dirty.

Draco walked along the beach and watched the sun try to glitter in the waves. It was a day that lacked energy, a day when nothing was fulfilled, and Draco was restless.

He went back to the château and climbed up on the roof terrace, leaned against the parapet and thought of his first autumn with Harry. They had been at Malfoy Manor, sauntering down from the house towards the orchards…

The gravelled path was covered with acorns, splitting and crunching under their feet. There were heaps of red-green-yellow maple leaves, made for feet to shuffle through, and spattered conkers made for hands to pick up and hide in pockets. Perfect to throw at each other, too, and shove down each other's collar.

In the orchard, ripe fruit fell to the ground with a thud, looking beautiful in the grass for a few hours before it was eaten by birds, deer, insects. The trees were dotted with apples; the air was filled with their fragrance.

Draco reached up for a Transparente Blanche apple and handed it solemnly to Harry like a precious gift. Harry ate it with reverence, and Draco leaned forward to lick the moist sweetness from Harry's lips...

But that was then, and this was now. Draco straightened up and looked out over the pewter sea. _Love is like hunger_, he thought. _You learn to deal with the pain of it._

xxx

Winter was long and in greyscale, the landscape either sullen or austere. The rocks were dark and flecked with sea spray, the trees like ink drawings. Birds wheeled silently against the sky. A few bright red rosehips were still holding on to their thorny branches, like blood stains, sharp deep stabs in the black and white canvas. Refusing to let go; refusing to be muffled by greyness.

Draco thought they were like his own hope that Harry was not dead – defiant and refusing to surrender. _I won't let myself go numb_, he thought. _I won't stop bleeding. I'll bleed some more and then go on bleeding until the wound is clean._

Then spring arrived, and something had to break.

The call of the ocean was pulling at him, and he realised he couldn't stay in Finistère. It wasn't enough. He had to find other places, other seas.

And suddenly he knew what he had to do. Packing only the barest of essentials, he set out to re-visit happiness.

xxx

Dusk was falling and the tide was out. Draco crossed the bridge over the railway and climbed down the black rocks onto the sand. To his right he could see the long pier of Dun Laoghaire, to his left the lights of the city, and straight ahead was the peninsula of Howth. He hunched his shoulders in the damp wind, bracing himself against the memories.

xxx

They Apparated into an alley on the north side of the Liffey. The first thing they saw was an authoritative sign: "Dumping of any rubbish bags in this area is STRICTLY PROHIBITED." Right beneath the sign were two gigantic, overflowing rubbish bags.

Harry was laughing. "A big FUCK YOU if ever I saw one!"

It went without saying that the first thing they had to do in Dublin was to find a pub for a pint of Guinness. Not until then could they go to find their hotel.

Next morning was dark and grey and they lay in bed with Harry's head on Draco's chest, listening to the rain. At the last breakfast-serving minute they had bacon and eggs and toast, and decided to go to Howth despite the weather.

Rain streaked the train windows diagonally as they rode north, but when they got off the train and wandered towards the harbour, the rain stopped. Lunch hungry already, they bought fish and chips, and when Draco shocked Harry by refusing vinegar he was graciously given a lemon wedge instead. On the pier they found a bench that was so wet they had to charm it dry, and sat watching the sea while they ate from the greasy, transparent-stained brown paper wrapping.

The breeze smelled of salt, and suddenly the sky was oddly divided up into one heavily overcast half and one brightly blue. The sea was dramatically grey in one direction, shimmering blue in the other. There were sea birds – cormorants, Harry said, and Draco, useless with birds, took his word for it. They strained their eyes to spot seals.

A dog came up to them and meekly begged for some of their fish and chips. Draco refused to share and the dog trudged off, but Harry ran after it with some chips. When it gratefully licked Harry's fingers Draco could only shake his head, amazed that Harry's smile should go to his own heart like an arrow.

The sun came out brightly, making everything sparkle. The sea changed colour from grey to smiling green and blue – and suddenly the seals were there, two, three, and Draco and Harry both rose from the bench. Neither of them had seen a seal in the wild before.

"I've only seen them swimming in a loop in the zoo," Harry said. "Around and around. Never like this – not surfacing like Nessie."

Draco put an arm around Harry's shoulder and kissed his temple where the wind smoothed his hair away.

They climbed down to a pebble beach and listened to the sound of waves, rushing in to make the pebbles clatter and turn as they receded. Harry reached down to rescue a pebble from out of the waterline before it was sucked back out, and straightened his back, grinning.

"It has a smiley face on it. Look!"

Draco found a black and white one that looked like an eye staring up at them from the water; Harry shuddered and made him throw it back. Instead he found a small, flat, green, very smooth one that was perfect to keep in the pocket and stroke with his thumb.

As they walked up the steep road towards the cliffs, Draco looked around in the breeze and thought _I will remember this_. He wanted to remember the blues and greens of the sea and grass and trees and creepers, the white, black, yellow, grey houses on the cliffs, the yellow gorse and white-blooming bindweed, the cerise and pink-and-white fuchsias, the dark green of the ivy. He wanted to lock it all into a crystal ball, a snow globe that would keep it alive for years to come; not only the colours but how the air smelled and how it got clearer and sharper as they went uphill, how the light was soft and bright at the same time, how the late afternoon sun fell on the grey stone walls where windows opened unexpectedly to show the sea. What the damp top of the wall felt like under his arms and hands as he stopped to lean against it and look out over the sea, and what Harry's chin felt like resting on Draco's shoulder, his cheek cold and stubbly against the side of Draco's neck. The sea shifted and glittered; it had light streaks and dark streaks and sea birds diving. Clusters of seagulls shimmered like glass beads or pearls embroidered on an endless piece of blue-grey silk. Harry's lips were cool on Draco's skin, but his tongue was warm.

They caught the last rays of sunshine from up on the cliffs; they waded through miniature forests of green and yellowing bracken, surrounded by soft, wet mats of green moss and springy purple heather. Lying down on their backs they looked at the sky, at the sea upside down, dizzy and laughing like children. The sunlight was flowing, autumnal gold, and suddenly they had to find out whether the topography would allow them several sunsets.

"There's always somewhere higher," said Harry and began to climb, and they had a second sunset and then a third.

Scrambling back down towards the forest of bracken, slipping and sliding and stumbling downhill, they fell over in the mud more than once. Breathless with laughter, they charmed each other clean as they reached the road.

Although the sun had disappeared below the horizon, some of the golden light lingered on the stone walls and the green sea as they stopped to look at the view one last time.

"I want that house," Harry said and pointed, "or that one, the grey and white."

"No," Draco said, "the white one with the glass front, there."

"What's stopping us? We can have them all."

And right then it really felt as though everything was possible.

Purple twilight came and the lights went on, white and glaring orange. They took the train back to town; Harry in the window seat tilting his head to look up at the sky, and Draco in the aisle seat leaning across him to see it, too. The world was slowly, softly being erased; there was a pastel-coloured sky, purple water, purple mist.

_T__his is it, _Draco thought. _This is happiness._

xxx

But the ghost of happiness didn't bring Harry back. He was no closer here than he had been in Finistère, and Draco had to go on.

xxx

They had travelled to the north of Finland to fly cloud-pine branches, and returned to Helsinki to round off their visit. After a night of clubbing they had wandered back to their hotel in the small hours, tired but not too drunk, laughing with their arms around each other's shoulders, meandering slowly through the streets. The sun had already been up; the world was edged with gold.

Now Draco sat on the wooden deck of a café by the sea just outside Helsinki, where he had taken the Muggle tram. Before him on the table was a cup of coffee, and he sat watching the May sunshine on the sea and people coming to the wood jetties to wash their rugs with brush and soap.

It was pleasant, but Harry was not here – Draco could feel his presence, but distantly. Perhaps he preferred warmer seas.

xxx

When Draco arrived back in England to pick up Scorpius, who was to come with him on his travels, he was met by an anxious Astoria.

"You will be careful, Draco, won't you?" she said, smoothing their son's fair hair as Draco lifted him up and held him. "You know how dangerous it is to use Portkeys or trying to Side-Along a small child."

Draco bit back a sharp reply, reminding himself that it wasn't criticism towards him, only a mother trying to protect her child.

"We'll travel safely," he said. "We'll use magic carpets; I think he'll enjoy that. There are all these classic carpet routes that I've always wanted to try - the Oriental from Paris to Istanbul, the Chinese from Moscow to Beijing."

They weren't going to try those, but he didn't want to explain.

"Be careful," she said, and kissed them both.

xxx

Draco had been right. Scorpius loved flying carpets, sitting cross-legged inside the protective bubble watching the miniature buildings and trees below, or lying on his back looking at clouds, trying to figure out what they looked like – bears, mountains, kingly crowns. When they flew at night, they counted stars in the dark sky until they fell asleep.

On their Paris-Naples flight it rained, but Scorpius was content with his stuffed dragon, some crayons and paper, and an apple. They landed on a hillside outside Naples, with a spectacular view of the city stretched out between Vesuvius and the bay. Draco leaned his elbows on the drifts of pine needles on top of a wall and breathed in the Mediterranean air, but Scorpius was more interested in a lizard rustling in the grass.

Arriving in Sicily, Draco was inundated with memories so powerful they made him reel, triggered by that characteristic smell that was just the same as the night he had arrived here with Harry. He was glad to have Scorpius with him, or he'd have broken.

The sea was blue and warm and spoke softly of happiness, of youth, of long warm nights. They stayed on the beach all day, but the voice Draco was listening for was silent.

In the evening, an exhausted Scorpius threw a tantrum, screaming and kicking and squirming furiously on the floor, causing small eruptions of magic that sent things toppling off shelves, until he fell asleep mid-howl. Draco carried him to bed and sat for a while smoothing the damp hair out of the sweet, peaceful face that had been contorted with rage only a minute ago. He leaned down to kiss his son, overwhelmed by tenderness, loving him so much his chest ached.

_And just now I would gladly have thrown you out the window,_ he thought, smiling to himself at the resilience of parents.

He sat watching the small fists on the pillow, fingers opening and closing slowly like sea creatures, anemones.

_Don't think about the sea, _he told himself._ Let it go, just for once._

But the sound of it was still there – through the window, inside his own head, in his body, in his dreams.

xxx

With Scorpius present, it was impossible to succumb to moodiness or despair, impossible to immerse himself in memories. Draco was grateful. He felt as though Scorpius was the only thing tethering him to reality. Left to himself, he would take off like a kite.

Instead, they focused on more immediate things, like removing sand from their clothes, or eating.

They both loved the food – the thin delicious pizzas, melanzane alla parmigiana, involtini, and all kinds of sweet things: cassata, torroncini, cannoli, almond orange baci – and most of all the gelato. While Draco delighted in trying different flavours, hovering between stracciatella and pistachio as his favourite, Scorpius chose strawberry the first time and then stubbornly stayed with it, shaking his head energetically when Draco urged him to try something else just once. Draco loved the thimble-sized servings of fragrant espresso and the clean, crisp elegance of the local white wines, while Scorpius was enamoured with Aranciata.

But as the days went by, Draco began to realise there were no answers here, and deep inside he knew that his travels were over. He needed to go back to Finistère.

xxx

Château Maléfice lay silent and half asleep in the dusk as Draco slowly crossed the lawn to the maze. With Scorpius back with his mother in England, everything was so quiet. Draco felt calm, empty and a little sad, as if there was nothing left for him to do but to let things take their own course to conclusion. Without having to think where he was going, he navigated the maze and reached the roses in the centre. At his touch, the white, shimmering flowers blushed crimson.

It was a soft, warm evening with a sea calm as billowing silk, just like the night he and Harry had slept on the beach.

He took a towel and his sleeping bag, Apparated down to the white crescent of sand and lay down on it, clasping his hands behind his head and looking up at the darkening sky where stars where beginning to show.

The whispers of the sea were barely audible tonight, and when he slept he dreamt of nothing but calm green waters, cool and still. There was no life in them, no sea creatures, no plants.

He wasn't sure what woke him. He was lying on his side and turned to look up at the sky and get his bearings. Dawn was coming, dyeing the sky a fine, misty pink in the heavy stillness that precedes morning. The sea lay quiet under the pearly sky, and then out of it, spectre-like, rose a human form. Water rushed and dripped from it in smooth, glittering cascades, running in rivulets down its shape as it came ashore.

Draco sat up, gathering the sleeping bag around him and clutching it to his chest, numb with shock.

_I'm dreaming_, he thought, but there were too many things that were too real, things that never occurred in his dreams. He was cold, sand itched on his cheek, and Harry's skin was so sickly pale.

For it was Harry, or the ghost of Harry, or something that looked like Harry, that came walking across the sand towards Draco, slowly and stiffly, as if in pain.

Draco's head filled with silence and he thought he would pass out. A surge of wild magic made a little eddy of sand rise from the shoreline to dance around them. Draco scrambled out of the sleeping bag, up on his feet.

"Harry?" It was barely a whisper.

Harry's eyes wandered over the rocks and the castle before finally settling on Draco's face. His mouth opened slightly and he stopped an arm's length away, with his hair plastered to his head and water dripping off him.

"Draco." He reached out and touched Draco's face, his fingers like ice. "You're so beautiful. Like you're made of light."

His words were slow and overly clear as though he was still underwater. Tears burned under Draco's eyelids.

"How?" he whispered hoarsely. "Where have you been?"

Harry was taking deep breaths, looking incredulous as if air was a surprising experience. His hand slid down to rest on Draco's shoulder, frighteningly cold.

"Their magic," he said slowly, "their magic is very powerful."

Draco shivered under Harry's touch, waiting for him to explain, but when no explanation came, Draco shook himself free from the dreamlike paralysis that had seized him.

"Let's leave the details for later," he said. "We have to get you inside, and get you warm."

"Warm," Harry repeated dreamily, as though he could barely remember what that meant.

Draco Side-Alonged him to the master bathroom and filled the bathtub.

"The sounds are different than they are underwater," Harry said. "The quality of them. Like a rush of noise, all blending together… The only thing I can hear clearly is your voice. As if it's inside me."

Something broke in Draco then. He pulled Harry to him and kissed him, and though the cold lips were unresponsive under his, Harry's hands slid up his back, holding him.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered. "I'm not all here yet. They did say it would take a little while to re-acclimatise. Please be patient with me."

Draco could only nod; he didn't trust himself to speak.

Harry climbed in the tub and Draco began to rub his shoulders gently with a sponge. The room was slowly filling with steam, making Harry's skin blush to hide the pallor. When he held up his hands in front of him and splayed his fingers, Draco saw they had begun to web.

_I'm not dreaming,_ he told himself. _I would never dream this._

"I can't believe you're here at last," he murmured. "Of course I'll be patient – I've waited so long already."

He leaned down to kiss Harry's shoulder, his tongue catching a drop of water sliding down the back of Harry's neck, following its path upwards. Harry gasped.

"How long have I been gone?" he asked in a whisper.

"Seven years," Draco replied softly with his lips against the cold skin.

Harry turned to look at him then. He still moved slowly but his speech was returning, the words coming faster, surer. "Seven years? I had no idea it had been that long. Time is different there. Like in a dream... you can't tell whether it's fast or slow. Sometimes, though… sometimes I thought I could sense you. I used to imagine you looking out over the sea…" There was a pause. "You must have thought I was dead."

A startled laugh escaped Draco. How could he even begin to tell Harry everything? Azkaban. Astoria. Scorpius.

Harry's hand came up from the water, warm now; the webbed fingers touched Draco's cheek.

"I'm so sorry," he said, and pulled him down in a kiss.

Draco closed his eyes and rested in the moment. It was all they had, all they could be sure to have. Outside the sea was whispering, and one day, Draco thought, the whole story would be told.


End file.
